


Relief

by Suckers Dream Obscene (PoisonedDeath)



Category: Placebo
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-06 18:13:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1110013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoisonedDeath/pseuds/Suckers%20Dream%20Obscene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He doesn't remember.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Relief

**Author's Note:**

> I literally have no idea what this is. Also, sorry for any typos.

He finds himself in a run down apartment that he can vaguely recall, but he has no idea how he came to be there. His skin itches, burns, but he has lost all will to cure it. He's slumped on the couch in a torn black mini dress and shredded fishnet stockings. Life in ebony. How did he get here? The tearstain that smudged black streaks down his cheeks has now dried onto his grey skin and his black polish continues to chip from his chewed nails. His hair, jet black and limp, is plastered to his pale face. A sorry sight to behold, left alone in a brown and grey room. But his eyes see no colour, for he has fallen into a slumber now, to sleep off the drink, those frilly cocktails and that last bottle or three of vodka. To sleep off whatever he swallowed, smoked or snorted. He'd have no idea if you asked him. He's alone on a ship of shit and he's sinking into the sea of yesterday's vomit that surrounds him. He's comforted now, in dreams he won't recall, but he'll be dragged back to consciousness by his nightmares. He'll tell you that he doesn't remember them, but you weren't there, you didn't see him scrawl down that imaginary torture in black ink on torn, yellowing paper. Everything on this planet decays, but in this room, the decay is quicker. Built to decay was this small, broken body, collapsed on that beat up sofa, track marks visible, wearing a frown. You wouldn't know that he frowns in his sleep as you've never been there; you've never seen true sorrow with your own eyes. He'll awaken soon, that man breathing shallow breaths, and he'll cry tears of desperation through the phone. He always calls you, he begs for you. You'll decline, just like you always do, tell him you want to sleep and he'll open another bottle. An endless cycle. You suspect this, but you're afraid. You don't want the confirmation. Time wears on a little longer, and now there are two broken down doors, wooden splinters everywhere. There's you, you're here now, kneeling on the bathroom floor, trying to wake him up. He has crimson teardrops pouring from his bruised wrists and another layer of dried tearstain. But he's breathing. He's breathing and that's all that matters to you. You're petrified, you're terrified but he's broken and you're papering over the bloodied cracks with thin bandages as you sob. He stirs and you find your lips on his. Relief. This is relief. His face is vacant, but his eyes have a sparkle. You see it now. You can be his relief.


End file.
